


Herbivores

by Jane_Fairfax



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aka Mary was dumped after Sherlock came back, Angst, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Canon Divergence, Case fic fail, Desperation, Do Not Worry, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, NOT THAT kind of use, No Mary, Nobody shot Sherlock during HLV, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Not Beta Read, Orgasm Delay, Sherlock Whump, Watersports, improper use of a water bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 13:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10164203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane_Fairfax/pseuds/Jane_Fairfax
Summary: ...the remark confirmed his suspicions about Magnussen real aim in this little game of his. It was all planned to force Sherlock to humiliate himself in front of the magnate, set him up to be submitted and betrayed by his own “transport”.The trap has been set carefully, as to leave no chances of winning for the detective.The game was rigged, and since the start Sherlock was a mere puppet in it, forced to play for Magnussen own sick pleasure.





	

  


John was angry. 

Wrong. 

In fact John was beyond angry. He was furious.

  


\--+O+--

  


That morning had begun in an excellent way. First, there were the aftereffects of an enthralling dream, quietly disposed with a lavish wank in the shower. Then, there was finding the protagonist of said dream waiting for him in the kitchen. Perched on a chair, still soft faced and sleep-rumpled, he greeted him with a sweet smile and two freshly made cups of tea already settled in front of him. 

The morning continued with pleasant chattering between them, and with Sherlock-fucking-Holmes-eating-all-his-sodding-breakfast. 

_Spontaneously!_

Needing not even an ounce of spur from John.

Of course it was too good to last.

It was Magnussen’s message that spoiled that perfect morning. It claimed he happened to stumble over some useful information in his archives concerning the serial killer case they were working on and off since last month.

The case originated from what the Yard considered two disconnected homicides that were then linked together by Sherlock and declared the starting work of a single killer. And until now, Sherlock and John had been stuck in an impasse by the lack of useful evidence; they could do nothing more than wait for the surfacing of a new clue, or a slip from the criminal.

Neither of them was so naïve to believed that Magnussen could do something useful out of the goodness of his heart or compassion for the victims. The true question was what he would require in exchange for this favour. 

John never missed the lecherous gazes and the not so subtle, spine-chilling “flirting” Magnussen pressed against Sherlock every time they were forced to meet him. Even though the detective always tried to stay above it, burrowed in his arrogant and cold persona, John could see past it. He could see how every single instance of Magnussen’s predatory behaviour left Sherlock rather disconcerted. What John could do to minimize any opportunities for Sherlock to meet with Magnussen he did, and when said meetings where inevitable, at least he tried to always escort him, never to leave him alone with the disgusting man. 

This time too John tried dissuading Sherlock from accepting the invite.

It didn't work.

  


\--+O+--

  


And now they were in the man’s lair, waiting to be summoned inside his office, Sherlock, amiably speaking with Janine about God only knows what, still too much friendly and familiar with each other, in spite of all that fake engagement fiasco. 

What happened to the good old messy break ups?! Those where the aftermath left both sides hating each others and not wanting to have anything to do with one another. John could practically consider himself a professional in those. Hell, he could even give lectures on the subject!

While John stood there, aggressively brooding at the duo, Janine received the call with the instruction to escort them in.

  


\--+O+--

  


Standing before his desk Magnussen greeted them, radiating a specious jovial attitude, which didn’t reach his eyes. John felt his hackles already rising in instinctual alarm.

The magnate ignored Sherlock’s firm request for an explanation, and herded the two guests towards the boardroom, where he motioned them to sit at a long, glass topped table. In front of them, on top of the table, were a dozen big binders divided in two tall stacks, all of them overflowing with documents. 

 

Before sitting himself in front of Sherlock and while newer removing his gaze from him, Magnussen directed Janine to go fetch three tall glasses, and to fill a big water jug with the bottles inside the little fridge in a corner of the room. Glasses arranged and jug positioned at the center of the table, between the three men, Janine was dismissed to leave and return to her desk. 

 

Magnussen began to pour the water in his own glass with smooth movements, and without even sparing a look at them and with a hint of pretended boredom in his tone, he explained: “Well Mr. Holmes, the game is quite simple: inside one of this binders there are some information you’ll find very useful for your ongoing case. You have all the time you need to peruse them, but as soon as you leave the table, the game is over and I get back my documents.”

Sherlock was about to give one of his cocky response, but Magnussen looked up, and staring unblinking at him, carried on with the rules. “No cheating sharing them with your companion. It would be useless. His tiny brain couldn’t find them in the middle of all this data--” This time it was John whom reacted with a look of annoyance. “Ah, and I want to see your beautiful hands ALWAYS ON the table. No naughty tricks under the table--” and pointing to the binders “From which one do you want to start?” 

 

As Sherlock began his examination of the papers, the magnate filled the detective’s glass to the brim. Cold water already condensing the jug surface and shortly after the glass one too.

As it was immediately clear that Sherlock was going to ignore it, Magnussen reproached him with a sly smile. “Don’t be rude. I might be offended by it and decide I no longer want to let you play with my toys.”

Sherlock complied with a huff, and in spite drank all the water in one swing.

The charade was repeated several times, at regular intervals of about ten minutes each. Magnussen filling Sherlock’s glass and pressing for the detective to quickly empty it, so as to “continue straightway his examination of the papers”, but leaving John and his glass alone.

After an hour of this, John noticed with alarm how Sherlock started to fidget more and more evidently. Restless movements beginning from his crossed legs, with a jittery, fast tapping of the right foot, and quickly overrunning the entire body, with the successive addition of a nervous shifting of his hips on the chair, and random twitching of his hands over the papers.

A fine sheen of cold sweat now covered Sherlock’s face, and his eyes, scanning the documents, acquired a more frantic edge in their movements. 

Of course these changes didn’t get lost to Magnussen, the bastard, whom with an air of fake innocence began to fill Sherlock’s empty glass for the umpteenth time, mindful to pour the cascading water slowly and in a way that made the splashing sound of the liquid even more loud. Never taking his eyes off Sherlock, he nudged the glass a little closer to him. Sherlock was pretending to have not noticed the gesture, maintaining his eyes glued to the content of the binder in front of him, but his ruse was betrayed by his posture gone even more stiff during the act. 

John tried protesting, but like when he did the couple times before, was completely ignored.

“Please Mr. Holmes, I must insist. You seem very overheated.”

Without looking up, the detective reached out a lightly trembling hand, with a slow motion brought the glass to his lips and began to take some tentative sips of water.

“Bottom up!” Magnussen urged with glee.

Sherlock ignored him, but, paler and paler every passing seconds, continued gingerly drinking. 

“Sherlock, please! Give me the permission to sock this bastard fucker and I’ll do it. With delight.” Currently John didn’t mind the troubles a similar feat could cause him, if in exchange he could save Sherlock from this torture.

Magnussen tsked mockingly.

“No. I must solve the case… with either of us not sued to death… nor in prison, possibly.” A shadow of a smile tugged at Sherlock’s mouth for an instant while saying so, but immediately disappeared. 

  


\--+O+--

  


Ten minutes more passed, Sherlock’s eyes had acquired an unfocused quality in their scanning, his mind clearly sidetracked by baser instincts. His muscles were visibly locked and his hands abruptly moved to reach his pelvis area.

“Remember Mr. Holmes, no hands under the table,” Magnussen reminded to the detective.

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes in despair, his face drained of all his colour, his shoulders hunched ever more, but his hands returned to the papers over the table.

“John?! … I cannot give up,” Sherlock murmured desperate.

 

Rage was gnawing at John, but he tried to quell it down and think of a solution. What he came up with, he didn’t like, but they didn’t have much time, and it seemed the only viable “solution” at present, or at least the lesser evil. 

“I can buy us some more time… You cannot urinate when fully hard, did you know?” He tried for a neutral tone of voice, but failed.

“Oh! An unexpected but interesting twist!” Magnussen watched them trilled.

After a minute of internal struggle Sherlock whispered: “Yes… please John,” without meeting his eyes. That reply was the closest to a consent the detective could concede in the situation they were now, so John accepted it with a stiff nod.

Trembling a little himself from the nervousness , John reached his right hand across, toward Sherlock’s lap, hoping that Magnussen didn’t plan to add new stupid rules for him too.

He gently cupped his hand on the detective crotch, feeling how the cock was already partially stiffened, likely already oversensitive from the desperation to urinate.

Sherlock’s breath hitched at the first minimal touch to his genitals, his posture gone even more rigid. John in reflex broke immediately the contact hand still hovering near yet.

“Careful with it! You know how trigger happy virgins are. You would not want for him to shoot all of his load and make a complete mess in his pants right in front of me, right?! ” 

Magnussen’s remark made John pause a moment. It came like a complete shock for him. What about Irene?! And above all, what about bloody Janine, whom after the break-up didn’t miss an instant to tell to the world about all the vigorous and acrobatic sex she had with Sherlock. He knew the papers were exaggerating about it, but some truth must have being there, buried among the rubbish. 

John instinctively turned his puzzled gaze toward Sherlock, which was now beet red, and had his head slightly bowed, eyes briefly closed in mortification. That alone settled all his doubts.

The second part of the remark confirmed his suspicions about Magnussen real aim in this little game of his. It was all planned to force Sherlock to humiliate himself in front of the magnate, set him up to be submitted and betrayed by his own “transport”. 

The trap has been set carefully, as to leave no chances of winning for the detective. The game was rigged, and since the start Sherlock was a mere puppet in it, forced to play for Magnussen own sick pleasure. 

Leaving the room to go relieve himself with dignity was to forfeit not only the victory, but above all the chance of a rapid closure of the case, bringing the possibly of losing other human lives because of a silly little body function. But John was sure the magnate betted on the second possibility, the one exploiting one of Sherlock’s worst weaknesses: his underestimating of the power of his body needs over his mind wills. In this case meaning enduring, and staying here till he found all the indispensable information, with the result of soiling and disgracing himself in front of Magnussen, and possibly for the rest of the world to see, when they’ll leave. Giving the old creeper abundant fodder for his wanking sessions, since the amount of documents to peruse was planned to be just so burdensome, that it would be impossible for Sherlock to find the valuable clues in time. Especially now that his focus was forcedly diverted elsewhere.  
John eyes angrily turned to Magnussen, daring him to say anything else. The man responded with one of his creepy little smirks.

 

Suddenly Sherlock stiffened from head to toes, crumpling the document in his hands, his thighs squeezing together like a vice. 

“Ah! John… please!”

John understood and decided to take action quickly, and again started to palm the other man groin, reassured in finding the trousers fabric still dry. His touches started soft and then increased in intensity as he felt the detective’s penis gradually stiffen more under the stimulation. 

John was careful to tantalize but not induce the orgasm. Sherlock was already stifling all sort of whines. 

Were the circumstances completely different, John was sure that Sherlock’s breathy shudders, would have a different much more explosive effect in him. At present were still making his own penis perk up a tiny bit.

 

As he felt Sherlock become fully hard, he stopped his stroking, but rested his hand over the detective thigh, ready to resume his work as soon as necessary. Sherlock was visibly struggling to concentrate, face aflame, but carried on with his research, “interrupted” every so often by John’s ministrations every time his erection started to subside.

The time was dragging without a resolution, and Sherlock was more and more unfocused in his task and in clear discomfort. Ready to burst every second now, without the minimal hint of an intention to leave (probably it was already way too late for it). So John started to frantically search his mind for a solution, when he suddenly remembered the bottles from earlier. Giving a last stroke over Sherlock’s crotch, he abruptly stood up and, after getting round the table, he swiftly made a beeline to the fridge on the corner behind Magnussen, from which he retrieve an almost empty plastic water bottle.

Bottle in hand, John returned to sit at the table, and with a grimace of fake courtesy, poured the remaining water in both his and Magnussen’s glass, mindful to try to don’t do too much splashing noises. By the intrigued expression the magnate already wore on his face, he clearly already foreseen what John meant to do, and seemed not planning to stop him.

Emptied bottle placed within close reach on the table, John’s hands were now free to wander to Sherlock’s trousers button, he hesitated an instant before proceeding.

A still beet red Sherlock was keeping on avoiding eye contact with him, but as he wasn’t stopping him either, John carried on and quickly unbuttoned and unzipped the trousers. Opening and lowering the two flaps, he tried to uncover as much as possible of the front of the pants.

Luckily the open binder and the scattered papers in front of Sherlock seemed to conceal the worst of the acts from Magnussen’s eyes, but the magnate appeared not minding it. His coveting eyes were glued to Sherlock’s vulnerable face, motionlessly watching, thirsty to catch every single helpless grimace from him.

Disturbed from the scene, John forced himself to bring back his full attention to a very flustered Sherlock. He stuck his fingers inside Sherlock’s pants, finding them already a bit wet near the head of his penis. Tugging them a bit down, he let the livid shaft spring free, uncovering it to his sight. At the same time a shuddering breath left Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock’s posture became even more stiff, stealing a couple quick glances in Magnussen direction, his erection started to dangerously wane, so John began to gently stroke him. “Sherlock, close your eyes. Pretend he isn’t here.” He put his hand briefly in front of Sherlock’s eyes to coax him to close them.

Once Sherlock complied, and started to relax, beginning to recover his hardness, John’s pace sped up a little. Now rhythmically sliding the foreskin over the head and back down to fully expose the shining glands to the air. Sherlock was rock hard by now, a little drop of precome already beginning to swell from the tip. “When you feel you are close to finish you must tell me,” John warned and then let his thumb glide over the glands, then sweeping over the tiny wet slit and smearing the precome all around.

 

Tiny distressed high pitched sounds were escaping Sherlock, but even after many minutes lost in intense stimulation, he wasn’t able to let himself completely go. John was beginning to worry about chafing, so he decided a change of strategy was in order.

“Shh. I’m here. You are OK.” John was making soft shushing sounds, trying to soothe Sherlock a little. With his free hand he grabbed the bottle and brought its rim to encircle the slit of Sherlock’s penis.

“Mr. Holmes, think of England.” Magnussen laughted delighted.

Ignoring the teasing, John made Sherlock open his legs a little more, and snaked his hand lower, inside the front of Sherlock’s pants, wriggling it, till with some effort, he was able to lift the testes and push his fingers behind them. 

Sherlock stopped breathing. 

Skimming over the perineum, he straightly reached with his pointer and middle fingers to stroke the nerves clenched pucker. He gently whispered into the detective’s left ear, brushing the shell of it with his mouth, while at the same time he pressed the pads of his fingers a little more firmly over the furl, with no intentions to push inside, only to stimulate the sensible and fluttering rim. 

“Come for me sweetheart,” and finally Sherlock yielded and came with a half chocked cry and an aborted thrust. John’s closed fist was singlehandedly enclosing Sherlock’s glands and, with his thumb and pointer finger, holding the plastic bottle finish adherent to the penis tip, in order to prevent any possibility of spillage. “Good! Let it all go Sherlock.”

Magnussen burst into a thunderous applause. John pretended he didn’t care. 

Soon the bottle was filled with come, almost instantly followed by a powerful stream of urine matched by a groan of relief. John never ceased to murmur sweet words of encouragement inside Sherlock’s ear during the release. Once all was over, Sherlock was completely worn-out and leaning boneless towards his shoulder, being the one still clearheaded he quickly pulled up Sherlock’s pants, tucking away his spent penis with care, and buttoned his trousers with cold efficiency and steady hands. 

Noticing how, despite his fragile and dazed state, Sherlock was trying to outright resume his work, still flushed and still studiously avoiding to make eyes contact. John kept on gently soothing him with a centering hand placed over his shoulder, thumb softly stroking a sharp collarbone. Leaving it there, till Sherlock stopped trembling some minutes later.

 

A little more than half an hour later, looking like nothing bad ever happened, Sherlock finally found the data they needed to resolve the case. It was a seemly negligible line buried in an ordinary curriculum (the killer’s one, according to Sherlock), which kick started a brilliant deductions string from the detective.

Resolution of the case in hand, they stood and made to leave without a single glance to Magnussen, but before they could make to the door he said: “Still stand on my opinion over the English.” 

Both men froze and turned around, glancing inquiringly at Magnussen. 

“You really are well domesticated creatures. Housebroken too, I see,” he clarified, “I should get a pet just like you,“ added gazing at Sherlock with hunger, leaving him completely still and agape for a vulnerable instant. Quickly regaining his aloof façade but still ashen, the detective sneered, then turned and left the room with no apparent hurry. John followed him, but only after the great satisfaction of spilling the content of the bottle into the trash can closer to Magnussen. Defiantly maintaining unbroken eyes contact with him and finishing by tossing the empty bottle over the soiled paper litter, with a last hostile scowl aimed toward Magnussen, he walked out to rejoin with Sherlock.

  


\--+O+--

  


Once they were alone inside the elevator, John turned his head to look at Sherlock. The man was staring expressionless in front of himself. To the untrained observer he could have looked like the poster boy of impassibility, but John immediately noticed the soft trembling of his hands betraying the humiliated and overwhelmed state he was trying to dissimulate. 

John was craving to physically comfort the man he loved, and with him, himself too, but he didn’t want to risk to worsen the situation, adding to the distress of the detective with a more intrusive act, like the bear hug he was actually burning to give to him. 

Without letting himself the time to change his mind, John took Sherlock’s right hand with care and held it tight in his left one. Ready to immediately release it, if the contact seemed unwelcomed.

After a brief moment of startled tension the simple act of affection elicited in Sherlock, he let go a soft sight and mildly relaxed, following by a shyly reciprocating the hand-holding.

Maybe not all was ruined.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s not what I was attempting and it’s unbetaed, but I hope the result it’s enjoyable anyway.
> 
> I’m looking for a beta, at least for grammar and to correct the awkward (the “this is not how English work” kind of) phrases. Brit-picking and/or a more general help would be very welcome but not mandatory.
> 
>  
> 
> Since english is not my first language, constructive criticisms, tips and mistakes reports in the comments are very appreciated.


End file.
